to speed in a minute. For now, just hang on.”
Chapter 13
CARO STOOD OUTSIDE the school, with its gleaming glass facades and angular architecture. He was in Al Bateen, an affluent neighborhood of villas in Abu Dhabi that was popular with diplomats and the Western expats. He had chosen to live here in the Emirates’ capital. It was more self-assured, in contrast to the flash, the transience, the arrogance of Dubai.
His Mercedes idled beside him, the driver at the wheel. Caro crouched beside his daughter, took a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the corner of her mouth.
“What’s that smell, Father?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s like chemicals.”
“They probably changed a filter in the car,” he said. “You’re going to be late.” He ran his hand over her hair, gave her her backpack, and watched as she walked up the steps to the school.
He got back in the car, took off his Ray-Bans, and hung them from the pocket of his bespoke suit.
“Ready, sir?” the driver said, and he put the S550 in gear.
“No.”
He looked at the stragglers entering the school. His blue eyes scanned the windows as he watched the children climb the stairs and gather in the classrooms.
It was a beautiful winter morning. He sniffed his jacket. Yes. It was unmistakable: burned plastic. It had been a long day. He had flown back to the Emirates from Central Asia this morning and hadn’t had a chance to shower after visiting the cells.
The whole trip had been a waste of time. He’d sat in as two men, trained by his deputy, entered the latter stages of interrogation in a detention facility they had set up in an abandoned refinery. They were in a basket-case former Soviet republic that offered complete freedom of operation for a price.
The subject had been tied to the table, mottled with blood and filth. The two questioners took turns. One gripped what was left of his hair and shouted questions while the other held a torch to an empty water bottle and let the molten plastic drip onto the skin. It would fall, burning, and fuse with the flesh.
“Where were you going?” one barked.
He said nothing. The scalding was the easy part.
The second man waited, let the plastic harden, then grabbed its edge.
“Who were you going to meet?”
He jerked it back, bringing the flesh with it. It was a favorite trick of Saddam’s Mukhabarat. Now everyone used it.
The man began to sputter.
“What? What? Speak up!”
He broke. They asked the questions in a rapid-fire sequence. Names, dates, addresses; it all came in a torrent.
The two interrogators turned to Caro, the senior commander, though he held no official role. That would have circumscribed his freedom of movement, made him far too interesting to other intelligence agencies.
It was a common problem; the young men would try to impress him, go too far to prove their viciousness. It was amusing, in a way, because if they’d known whom he was working for, they would have executed him on the spot. They thought in black and white. They couldn’t understand the nuances of the great game.
“You brought me here for this?” Caro asked.
One man stepped closer, the concern clear on his face.
“Just stop,” Caro said.
The man on the table mumbled what thanks he could.
“But he just told us.”
“He would have told you anything,” Caro said.
“Didn’t you hear?”
Caro’s temper broke through. He took the torch and held the flame to the bottle, then laid a line of burning plastic from the man’s temple across his cheek to his neck, just below the jawline.
He ignored the screams, simply looked at the two interrogators, a patient teacher.
“Was Kyenge there?” Caro barked at the captive.
“Kyenge?” the man asked, desperate.
Caro tore the strip away in one clean stroke. Even the interrogators blanched at the damage.
The first screamed words were unintelligible, but then they became loud and clear: “Yes! Yes! Kyenge. He was there. I know him. I
Chapter 13
CARO STOOD OUTSIDE the school, with its gleaming glass facades and angular architecture. He was in Al Bateen, an affluent neighborhood of villas in Abu Dhabi that was popular with diplomats and the Western expats. He had chosen to live here in the Emirates’ capital. It was more self-assured, in contrast to the flash, the transience, the arrogance of Dubai.
His Mercedes idled beside him, the driver at the wheel. Caro crouched beside his daughter, took a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the corner of her mouth.
“What’s that smell, Father?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s like chemicals.”
“They probably changed a filter in the car,” he said. “You’re going to be late.” He ran his hand over her hair, gave her her backpack, and watched as she walked up the steps to the school.
He got back in the car, took off his Ray-Bans, and hung them from the pocket of his bespoke suit.
“Ready, sir?” the driver said, and he put the S550 in gear.
“No.”
He looked at the stragglers entering the school. His blue eyes scanned the windows as he watched the children climb the stairs and gather in the classrooms.
It was a beautiful winter morning. He sniffed his jacket. Yes. It was unmistakable: burned plastic. It had been a long day. He had flown back to the Emirates from Central Asia this morning and hadn’t had a chance to shower after visiting the cells.
The whole trip had been a waste of time. He’d sat in as two men, trained by his deputy, entered the latter stages of interrogation in a detention facility they had set up in an abandoned refinery. They were in a basket-case former Soviet republic that offered complete freedom of operation for a price.
The subject had been tied to the table, mottled with blood and filth. The two questioners took turns. One gripped what was left of his hair and shouted questions while the other held a torch to an empty water bottle and let the molten plastic drip onto the skin. It would fall, burning, and fuse with the flesh.
“Where were you going?” one barked.
He said nothing. The scalding was the easy part.
The second man waited, let the plastic harden, then grabbed its edge.
“Who were you going to meet?”
He jerked it back, bringing the flesh with it. It was a favorite trick of Saddam’s Mukhabarat. Now everyone used it.
The man began to sputter.
“What? What? Speak up!”
He broke. They asked the questions in a rapid-fire sequence. Names, dates, addresses; it all came in a torrent.
The two interrogators turned to Caro, the senior commander, though he held no official role. That would have circumscribed his freedom of movement, made him far too interesting to other intelligence agencies.
It was a common problem; the young men would try to impress him, go too far to prove their viciousness. It was amusing, in a way, because if they’d known whom he was working for, they would have executed him on the spot. They thought in black and white. They couldn’t understand the nuances of the great game.
“You brought me here for this?” Caro asked.
One man stepped closer, the concern clear on his face.
“Just stop,” Caro said.
The man on the table mumbled what thanks he could.
“But he just told us.”
“He would have told you anything,” Caro said.
“Didn’t you hear?”
Caro’s temper broke through. He took the torch and held the flame to the bottle, then laid a line of burning plastic from the man’s temple across his cheek to his neck, just below the jawline.
He ignored the screams, simply looked at the two interrogators, a patient teacher.
“Was Kyenge there?” Caro barked at the captive.
“Kyenge?” the man asked, desperate.
Caro tore the strip away in one clean stroke. Even the interrogators blanched at the damage.
The first screamed words were unintelligible, but then they became loud and clear: “Yes! Yes! Kyenge. He was there. I know him. I
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